Straggler
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: Let me see if I can find anything related to burlap sacks being crazy and deep." -luv2muchanime
1. Chapter 1

*Wow…no posts for like, 4 months! That's a first for me. 0_o… But anyway, here's my newest abomination, all out in the open for your waiting eyes1 Enjoy! ^^

"He's a _real_…nowhere man…" The melody floated on the dead air, whispering through the scattered wrecks of buildings and skipping along the cracked pavement, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The voice was wavering, quiet, and a bit squeaky; still, the tune was fine, and it seemed to be hitting at least half of the notes. Besides, who would care to critique, when even the singer seemed to have vanished?

"Sitting in his _nowhere land_…" A patch of brown separated itself from the dirty, rubble-covered pavement and began to creep along. Its color matched the brown and grey of the landscape perfectly—a walking blot of mud. For a moment, the sun appeared from behind a thick screen of cloud and shone brilliantly on the destroyed city. The shape froze, and for a moment corroded metal glinted in the pool of light. Then, the shape bolted, ducking for the cover of a collapsed hunk of metal, now rusted and decayed beyond recognition. In the gloom, the reflection of light on metal vanished and the shape was once again camouflaged.

A few moments later the shape deemed it safe to leave the shadows and skipped out into the dim sunlight. It hopped up onto a slab of black asphalt that had rose up on one side like a stony wave, almost falling and sliding down. On the black backdrop, the shape stuck out like a sore thumb: it was a stitchpunk. Two deformed hands, looking more like shovels affixed to its wrists, reflexively scrabbled for a purchase. Cautiously, it climbed up to the top, all the while singing that strange, half-remembered song. "Making all his _nowhere_ plans for _nobody_…"

The top of the asphalt tower gave the stitchpunk a good vantage point. The entire city was now easier to see; block upon block of chaotic, unrecognizable destruction. Beautiful. The stitchpunk grinned to himself. "Hasn't got a point of view…knows not where he's going to…" The rag doll spun a bit and jumped happily, dancing dangerously close to the edge. "Isn't he a bit like you and—_yeeee!_"

_Wump._ After a few dazzling moments of falling, the stitchpunk hit the ground below. Luckily, the fall wasn't so bad as to injure him, instead knocking the breath out of his little body and leaving him wheezing for about a minute. Sluggishly he pushed himself up on his metal-and-cloth elbows and looked blearily to his right side.

The whiteness of bone glared back at him. A weathered skull was lodged in the crack between the asphalt pieces, one eyehole buried in the dirt. The other eye socket glared at him as the jaws hung wide in an idiotic laugh.

_Tell me,_ that grin was saying. _Why bother singing? There's no one to hear you. It's just you and me, buddy. The few survivors of our last war._

"_Your _war. Not _our_ war. There's a difference." Reproachfully the ragdoll stood up. "I'm nobody, and nobody doesn't fight. Okay?" With that, he limped off, working the kinks out of his legs as he did so. There were an awful lot of places to explore still. The problem with being nowhere: there was an awful lot of area to cover before you got somewhere.


	2. Chapter 2

*Here's chapter 2. Enjoy! Oh, and thanks, Masako Moonshade for reading my story, even though you don't usually read OC fics. That makes me feel special. X)

The sun had sunk beyond the horizon when the stitchpunk finally stopped to rest; a molten lump of golden lead that trickled out of sight. For a while, there was darkness, so thick and profound that the burlap figure felt that he would not—_could_ _not_—go any farther. He shouldn't disturb the inky blackness. He sat down on a rock and began to wait. Slowly, the moon crept up overhead, a tremulous ball of grey light that cast a dim luminance over everything, but he didn't move. Something inside him—a hook? Glue? No, maybe his heart, on a string—had affixed itself to the ground so tightly that, frankly, the stitchpunk thought that he couldn't get up, even if he wanted to. Why should he? There was nothing here, nothing there, nothing _everywhere_. And he? He was nobody. Stillness oozed into his cloth skin from the outside air, covering him like molasses, like tar, forming a thick shell that obscured vision, hearing, movement, thought…

When the shell had cracked and the stitchpunk was free, the moon had been chased off by the radiance of the sun, taking along its posse of stars and fleeing without a second glance; it would be back. The ragdoll stood up, feeling refreshed, the night's stupor already behind him and getting farther away every second. This was a new day—a _whole_ day to watch over the beautiful decay of the city, the landscape, the _world_. He looked around and balked.

He didn't know this place. At first glance, the landscape—half-demolished buildings, broken sidewalks, bones—may have looked the same as anywhere else, but his trained optics told him otherwise. There were different patterns in the cracked pavement, radically altered structures that were nothing like the area he had tenderly guarded, watching day after day as the asphalt and mortar crumbled to dust. This was an entirely new part of the city; the worst thing he could imagine. Where was _his_ part of nowhere?

A cracking noise alerted him. Immediately, his senses shifted into overdrive: his corroded optics opening wide to scout the landscape, ears pricked, fingerless hands pressed to the ground to pick up any vibrations. A new area meant new dangers, new things to fight and hide from that he didn't know about. The stitchpunk saw a patch of dirt to his right. Excellent. He crept over and began to roll around in the soft earth, only stopping once he was completely covered and hidden from view. As long as he stayed still and kept his hands and feet out of the sun, he was invisible. Nobody again.

The cracking noises softened and deepened in pitch to thumping sounds that could be felt through the dirt. Not only that, but they came closer. Quickly he flattened himself on the ground, tucking his arms and legs in. If anything saw him, he'd be just a clod of dirt, unappealing to the eye and just begging to be ignored.

The noises came closer, until they were almost right on top of him. Cautiously the stitchpunk cracked open one optic and peered up at the source. What he saw he couldn't believe.

*Sorry to leave it with a cliffhanger, but I'm typing this up during my lunch period and I still haven't eaten. :( While the urge to write may overpower the urge to eat, it doesn't do so forever, I'm afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

*Wow. My 3rd post. I'm on a freaking roll, people! ^_^

The objects were odd, standing upright and making muffled sounds with the parts of them nearest to the ground as they moved closer. More sounds, too muffled to be heard, came from the ball-shaped part furthest from the ground. One of them was considerably lighter then the others, a bleached whitish color that brought that laughing skull to mind. The other, which walked next to her, was darker. A row of teeth shone on its cloth torso. Recognition striking, the stitchpunk leaned to one side so that the two fastenable rectangles of metal that kept his skin together shone in the sunlight. Clumsily he searched his memories for an image of what he looked like. He looked—he was…just like them! They were similar…but why? Why the resemblance?

Perhaps there were other nobodies, like him, that watched over the wonderful rubble of the city. He'd wandered out of his own area…was he now under the domain of the other nobodies? If so, maybe he should ask them how to get back to his place, his city. Slowly he stood up and shook off some loose dirt. Yes, that made sense; just walk over and ask for—

There were two more Others, this time blue and identical in hoods. Their eyes flashed with light as they stared at the landscape—no, at _him!_ He was standing up straight and they must be able to see him. What to do…what should he do? Jerkily, the stitchpunk held up one fingerless hand and began to pummel the air with it. He'd seen this action on a piece of paper among the destruction of his home; it was a greeting, a way of showing 'look, I'm alive'.

The Others took one look at him and turned, fleeing to hide behind the white and brown Others. The stitchpunk put his hand down and began to walk towards them. He had to ask, that's all; he had to ask if this was their part of the chaos. Then, he'd be able to get back to his vigil.


	4. Chapter 4

*Okay, here's chappy numero 4. ^^!

The white Other stepped in front of the blue Others as soon as he came into their line of sight. In their hand was a long, pointed stick-object—a weapon. Cautiously the stitchpunk held up his hands. The Other's eyes flicked to the fingerless paws and their expression softened, changing from a cold, calculating death-stare to something…something different, something softer. They shifted their grip on the stick—_spear, _whispered the memory in the stitchpunk's head—and instead blinked. "Who are you?" The Other's voice was soft, expressive, but stronger then his own tinny, squeaking method of communication. That meant—he didn't remember. He had to give it time, but the memory would soon return. But, the question: who was he?

"Nobody. I'm nobody." He ignored the Other's shared look of confusion and continued. "Who are _you_?"

The brown Other smiled nervously. "I'm 9." 9 didn't have that cold look on his face. Instead, he—as predicted, the memory came rushing back from somewhere; the white Other was a _female_, while 9 was _male_. From the voices, it was possible to tell—he looked glad to see him. "This is 7, and the little ones near you are 3 and 4." For a second, 9's eyes met with the stitchpunk's, and silent greetings were exchanged; 9's excited and enthusiastic, his bewildered and flat.

The stitchpunk looked down at the shorter Others. They seemed to have gotten over their initial fear and crept towards him to pluck at the worn, dirty cloth of his skin. Rustily, the stitchpunk's mouth moved up in a smile. "Hi."

Once again, they didn't talk. Their eyes glowed again, on and off, on and off. 7 smiled a bit. "They can't talk. They're happy to meet you though." They looked it: they were grinning, too. It was…strange. The stitchpunk awkwardly rotated his rusted wrists—a compulsion, something telling him to move his hands, twiddle nonexistent fingers—and accidentally wrenched the left one. A screeching symphony came as he tried to pop the dislocated hand back in place. Irritated, he looked from his hands, to the Others, then back at his hands again. A small noise of discontent escaped him.

"Here—" 7 reached over, gently twisting the hand back into place. A thin film of red-brown powder came off on her bleached hands. She grimaced at the rust stain and looked at the stitchpunk's hands.

"Let's see if we can fix this."

*Well, there you go. I tried to keep everyone OC, but if I didn't, PLEASE let me know.


	5. Chapter 5

*Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! Also, I noticed when watching 9 for the 3rd time that the voice actors really helped me understand the characters; because of that, I decided to pick a voice actor for my character. Whenever he talks, if you'd like, imagine Rupert Evans (the guy who plays John myers in Hellboy) as his voice. Anyway, here's the fifth chapter…

The stitchpunk soon realized that, despite the first few similarities, he was almost nothing like the Others. This had become painfully apparent as soon as 7 had begun to repair his damaged hands, examining the grime-caked holes in his palms with a sad, horrified air. She seemed astonished that he didn't complain about having no fingers, or even noticed it much.

"How did this happen to you?" 7 eyed his hands, his eyes—the stitchpunk noticed that his optics were cloudier then hers, the glass-and-metal scratched and corroded—and his skin. The question wasn't just about his appearance, though—he could tell.

He shrugged. "I don't know. They've always been like that." Like 7, he wasn't just talking about his hands—he had no recollection of ever having those stubby protrusions called _fingers_ anyway—he was talking about everything. There had been almost no ways to see how he looked for, well, for as long as he could remember, save for standing water and glass-and-mercury things called _mirrors_. He had just assumed that he'd looked the same way the entire time. A jolt of sadness came; when would he get back to his ward, the city?

"Where's your city?"

7's head snapped up as she heard the question. Slowly the Other stared at him, confusion in her eyes. "You mean, where do we live?"

"No. What city do you watch? Is it near here?" The stitchpunk waved his other hand towards the horizon. "My city's near here, I think. I accidentally walked away…I have to get back…"

7 fiddled with something near his wrist, but the stitchpunk didn't notice; he was too busy staring at 7, waiting for an answer. It was a few moments before the spoke. "I don't know what you mean by watching a city. We've been travelling this entire time. We watch over ourselves. Are you alright/" She added, concerned at the sudden look of panic that crossed the stitchpunk's face.

"Yes. I'm…I'm alright." They had no city? Then they weren't like him—the closeness in appearance had to be some trick, a coincidence. He was Nobody—resident of nowhere. They looked for _somewhere_ in the nowhere—what did that make them? Somebodies? Was he the only one of his kind—

"There. All done." 7 smiled and held up his hand. She'd managed to clear off most of the rust so that the joint moved easily, without freezing or squeaking. Slowly the stitchpunk rotated it, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. "I can't replace your fingers," She apologized. "There's nothing to replace them with. Maybe if we can find something along the way—"

"It's fine. Thank you." The stitchpunk's gratitude was apparent in his voice, thought he fear stayed hidden, just under the surface. 7's words worried him. "But…what do you mean, along the way?"


	6. Chapter 6

*Sorry I haven't posted for a while. Here's the next chapter.

He didn't want to go. Not only that—he _couldn't_. The Others wanted to keep wandering from place to place, drifting without anything to guide them along; that may be fine for them, but the stitchpunk had a place to go already, things to do. He had a city to watch—nothing could stop him from getting back. Except, maybe, the fact that he was lost. Try as he might, the stitchpunk couldn't figure out which way he had walked last night. That meant that he had four directions he could walk in before he found his home—if he kept traveling, he'd be sure to find it again, in time. Yes, he'd do that. He had to get back to his city—he had no choice.

He told this to 7 and 9 and watched as mixed expressions of shock, astonishment, confusion and horror spread across their faces, mingling together to form one look of shock. 9 stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "You can't go out there alone!"

A pull, much like that from a magnet, emanated from the metal-and-wood hand on his shoulder. It ran down his spine to his very core and wrangled with the gears inside his body. Another, much stronger pull retaliated, yanking him away from the well-intentioned grasp and dying down as quickly as it came. 9's hand dropped to his side as he spotted the look of fear and bewilderment on the stitchpunk's face.

"I—I have to go back. I have to. I'm sorry—you seem nice, but I don't have a choice." He decided that he'd go in the direction of the setting sun—that was _west_, right?—and stop when he either got home or he couldn't walk any more. "Maybe we'll meet again someday." With that, the stitchpunk turned and began walking away. He couldn't prevent himself from catching the expressions of sorrow on the Other's faces.

Why were they so sad? Didn't they know that he wasn't like them? The stitchpunk mused silently until the magnet-pull surged again, yanking him forward into a run that took him away from the Others, away from everything except the thoughts of his home, the city.


	7. Chapter 7

*Here's chappy 7. ^^!

_Nowhere man, don't worry; take your time, don't hurry. Nowhere man, the world is at your command…_

When the magnet-pull had died down and he could stop to rest, the stitchpunk collapsed, flattening himself face down on the concrete. How far he had run he had no clue, but judging by the tired whirring of his gears it had been very far. Much farther then he should have gone in one day.

The cold firmness of the pavement was squashing his optics into his head. Slowly the stitchpunk rolled over, staring up at the sky. It was blocked from view by red, gray and green clouds that hung heavy like bloated carcasses. The light had dimmed greatly since he'd started running: that meant that it was much later in the day. Alright. He was…somewhere…and it would be night soon. The stitchpunk wearily got to his feet and looked around. He was in another, different part of the city, but to all intents and purposes it could have been the same as the place he'd just left—similar in appearance to his part of the city yet painfully different. A hoarse cry of pain came from his throat—when would he be home? Would he ever be home?

A nearby tower of rubble collapsed, the concrete, metal, and rotted wood spreading themselves out on the ground. A small slip of paper was dislodged and floated up on the breeze created by the toppling refuse. The stitchpunk snatched it from the air as it coasted past him, holding it between his palms.

The white paper was crumpled and grimy with dirt and dust. The dark substance—ink—that was scrawled on its surface was almost impossible to pick out amidst the filth. However, the stitchpunk was able to recognize that it was writing. It took a while to figure out what it read: _a tiempo lo cura todo._ Gibberish. He had no idea what it meant, but he liked the way it sounded in his head. Quietly the stitchpunk recited it to himself. "A _tie_-empo low _cure_-a to-to. A tie-empo low cure-a to-to."

Another pile of debris fell apart, almost seeming to implode before scattering. The stitchpunk watched this uneasily. True, the city was filled with piles and piles of trash and destroyed structures that sometimes broke apart…but two piles near each other, in less than a minute? It was—what was the word—_suspicious_. Slowly he began to creep away from the refuse, holding the scrap of paper in his hands. Were those his thoughts, afire with fear, or was there a humming, mechanical throbbing in the air? He didn't know what could be going on, but the trick to avoid trouble was to stay very quiet—

He was hugging the paper to his chest. It disagreed with his tight squeeze, crinkling first silently, then audibly. The stitchpunk froze and tried to shift his grip on the paper; it got caught on the small—pin? Safety pin?—that kept his skin together and ripped, producing a horribly loud noise like static.

Immediately, a mechanical screech came as a shape barreled out from behind a collapsed building and skidded to a halt in front of him. The stitchpunk was only to process minor details—rusted metal, razor claws, head white like bone—before he was snatched up. The stitchpunk held mechanical fists up to his throat and head in a vain attempt to protect himself, but it was no use. The machine stared at him, red eyes like two pools of fire, set into the skull of something not human—a dog? A cat? It was impossible to tell, it was too worn and cracked. The stitchpunk shuddered as a memory flitted to the front of his mind—hell. He was looking into a place called hell.

The grip on his torso was tight—much too tight. He could feel his gears and parts getting crushed. Frantically the stitchpunk beat on his attacker's clawed hand with his own fingerless ones, ignoring the jolts of pain that came as razor fingers tore at his skin. The machine simply shook the stitchpunk, jostling him until he was sure that _something_ wiggled loose in his mechanical brain. He slumped, dazed and limp, in the monster's grasp. The machine made a sound unpleasantly like a laugh.

Not funny. Not funny at _all_. Regaining some semblance of thought, the stitchpunk brought his gaze up to meet that of the creature's. He forced his voice box to operate, creating a horrible high-pitched screech. His closeness to the monster provided a spectacular view as its sensors fired, producing a stream of sparks. The hand holding him relaxed—he was free! Gravity soon took hold of him instead and then he was falling, a sudden memory of dancing and singing in his city sparking.

_Nowhere man, please listen, you don't know what you're missing—_

Impact. The stitchpunk felt something crunch but didn't dwell on what it was or what effect it had on him. Instead, he focused on trying to remember where his arms and legs were and how they moved. Above him, the monster was tripping over itself, making loud cries of—what? Pain? Could it feel pain?—as it groped around for him. It was only a matter of time before it squashed him or found him.

A blur of white streaked past him, flying over his body and towards the machine. The stitchpunk spotted a pointed stick-weapon—spear? Only 7 had a spear—what was she doing here?

A pair of hands were under his arms; a voice—_9?_—was at his ear as he was dragged away from the fight. "Come on—we need to get out of here"

The stitchpunk staggered to his feet and limped after 9—there was something wrong with his legs, the joints were freezing and making odd grinding noises. He looked back just in time to see 7 slash at the machine's chest with her spear. Gears and wires could be seen, sparking madly as it collapsed. It screeched, twitched once—twice, then lay still.

7 trotted up to the stitchpunk and 9. She looked at the nameless stitchpunk, who simply gaped at her—were all Somebodies this powerful? He'd never taken on a monster in direct battle and _won_. But she's done it—not only that, but done it like it was an everyday thing for her. Incredible. She smiled wanly.

"Still think you'll be fine out there alone?"


	8. Chapter 8

**I know this is a short chapter, but it's a warm-up. I'll upload more chapters for Patience is a Virtue and Straggler tomorrow. {:}=

The stitchpunk didn't understand how the Others could be so interested in him. Even now, as he let 9 fix the shattered joints in his legs—the second time he'd been repaired since meeting them—he couldn't grasp their interest in him. Oh sure, he'd wondered if there were other nobodies, but he would never be so excited if he met one—no, he'd just quietly acknowledge them and continue to watch over his city…not drop everything and run after him. So odd—

A tsunami of pain came as 9 wrenched the offending joints, grimacing at the sound of rusty metal. To distract himself from the wave of discomfort the stitchpunk rotated his wrists, then quickly stopped when he remembered the results of the last time he'd done that. 9 caught the motion and, after a quick glance at the stitchpunk's face, he laughed weakly. "Wow…you're worse than 1. So rusty…" His expression changed: sorrow? Why sadness? The stitchpunk didn't get it.

"What is 'one'?" The stitchpunk blinked at 9. "Why are you sad about it?"

9 frowned. "Not 'what', 'who'. 1 was another stitchpunk, like you and me. 7 is one too, and so are 3 and 4."

_Stitchpunks_. He thought about it, slowly saying the new word inside his head. That an odd term. What did it mean? Was it the Somebodies' name for themselves? But that wouldn't make sense…he wouldn't be a 'stitchpunk' if they were, because they were all different. Did the Others even know that?

"We're alike?" Was what he decided to say. "How are we alike?"

9 hesitated; when he spoke he did so slowly and bewilderedly. "Well…we look the same…we're made the same…and we were all made by the Scientist, weren't we? That makes us alike."

"It does? But…" The stitchpunk tried to explain it all—how they couldn't be alike, how they had names and wandered and were Somebodies, while he was a Nobody from Nowhere, with nothing—but the words did not come. They wouldn't come; they refused to be said. The stitchpunk sighed and smiled, masking the bewilderment and raw understanding that soaked through him. "…I guess you're right. We are alike."


	9. Chapter 9

*Here's the next chapter. Sorry about the dialogue being so choppy, but I tried to argue the point from two different views in this chapter. So here you go! (0,,0)b

"So…y—us stitchpunks. Why were we made?" The stitchpunk hastily corrected himself as he spoke and stared at 9, rubbing some dirt off of his optic as he waited for a response. He still didn't believe that they were alike—how could they be?—but he might as well learn about all that the Others believed. "The…Scientist…made us. Why?"

"To preserve life." 9 sat down next to him, gazing off into the distance where 7 was playing some sort of a game with 3 and 4. At least, the stitchpunk _thought_ it was a game—they couldn't be seriously thinking that the places they chose to hide were concealing them. 7 had to be going along with it all, because even from here he could pick out where those odd blue twins were hiding behind that rock—the meaning of 9's comment sunk in and he turned to face him again, confused. "Life? What is that?"

_That_ seemed to startle 9 more than anything else he had said so far. Even his parting remarks hadn't shaken the Other this much. "Well—life is—it's kinda like…" 9 gestured to things that the other stitchpunk didn't see or really understand either. "I mean—don't you know what life is?"

The stitchpunk shook his head. "No."

"Well…you're alive. I'm alive. 7, 3, and 4 are alive. We move…and we think and feel, and well…_that's _life."

_That's life_. The stitchpunk considered this. Moving and thinking meant life…so that mean that the monster—the machine—that had attacked him was alive. But that didn't seem right…something was off with that idea; the stitchpunk didn't know what, but it was wrong. Maybe…maybe it didn't think, and that was why it wasn't alive. But how could you tell if another thing thought? And 7 had made it not move…so it was not-alive? What if it still thought but couldn't move? Did that make it half-alive? The stitchpunk blinked and slowly spoke.

"What…what is it called when you're not-alive?"

9 paused, and that look reappeared on his face—sorrow, the stitchpunk remembered. For a long time he remained quiet—so long that the stitchpunk almost forgot the question he'd asked in the first place. When he finally spoke again, it was quiet and strained. "Dead. You're dead when you're not alive."

"But…how can you tell if another thing is alive? You're not it—can you even tell if you're alive?"

"Wha—of course you can tell!" 9 stammered. "How can you be uncertain of that?"

"You can just think that you're moving and not actually be moving…that would make you dead, right? And if you don't think…you wouldn't know that you don't think…because you wouldn't be thinking." The stitchpunk tried to cope with the sudden stream of logic that entered his head. All these ideas—they were so new and so hard to understand…how did the Others deal with it all—

"You're alive, okay? So are we. We stick together because of that." 9 got up and walked off to join 7 and the twins, but not before the stitchpunk caught his expression of bewilderment. The Others didn't even understand these ideas completely, the stitchpunk thought with a swoop of panic. If they didn't get it…who did?


End file.
